Alone in a Crowd
by Avenue47
Summary: Vaughn ponders the nature of his marriage and how it meets (or doesn't) his needs. Slightly AU


I never thought that marriage would feel so lonely. But here I am, sitting alone, contemplating the emptiness I feel.

"Here" is a bench, in some anonymous park I found while driving around after work. I tried really hard not to think about whether or not I've been here before. There are still things I try really hard not to think about.

But the nature of marriage, _my_ marriage in particular, is not one of them.

It's actually something I've been reflecting upon since the thought crossed my mind, oh, about a year ago, when the term came up in a half-serious conversation.

_"Can you imagine what it'd be like if we were married?"_

I can hardly remember what we were talking about. We'd been out with friends, _her_ friends, of course (me not having very many), and during the course of the alcohol-soaked night (it would be okay since _she_ was with me, right?), a war was sparked between the "couples," and the "singles." With each taking pot-shots at the others' lifestyle.

Afterwards, we came back to my apartment, and laughed about the jibes we received. And how much worse it would be if we were married. The word "married," accompanied by gleaming eyes, lightly smiling lips, and a wistful sigh.

Oh, and don't forget the encouraging lovemaking.

After that, everything happened in a whirlwind. Thinking of one of those things I try really hard not to think about, I decided to grasp what I had in front of me, and hold it tightly.

And though I wanted it to happen quickly, it seemed to happen much sooner than I expected. Before I could take a deep breath and feel ready, we were standing on a wide expanse of grass, surrounded by family, friends (yes, even the few I had), and some co-workers that I now had no business knowing.

And promising our lives to one another.

What does that mean exactly? I go over the vows in my head – love, check. Honor, check. Cherish, check. Better or worse? Double check that. Richer and poorer? Well, we haven't had to deal with that, but I have no doubts. The same for "sickness and health."

There's no "share" there. There's no "confide" there. There's no "daily banter" there.

I miss those things.

Why I miss them is a reason I try very hard not to think about.

I'm sitting on my couch now, after deciding to leave that park bench to its own memories. I give no time to memories. I give my time to "now," and what I feel in this moment.

Right now, it's comfort. I'm kicked back, beer bottle in one hand, remote in the other, me wearing nothing but boxers, and my date, Ms. Big Screen, wearing an entertaining Kings game. My wife is absent on another trip.

She's gone a lot, trips to Washington, London, Rome, and other such places. I understand, of course. I used to live that life myself.

Not anymore. Just another memory I give no time to.

So I enjoy these nights, acting like a bachelor again. Settling into a world that belongs solely to men, and letting my testosterone flood the place. At times, I even have Eric over, when he can make it. He still lives that other life. That unpredictable, dangerous life that nobody should have to give time to.

And it's not like I have to wait for her to be gone to do this. It's just that the first time I did do this with her home, she came over to the couch, looked at me in that way that said "What is this, hmmm?" and then looked at me in an entirely different way.

I missed the rest of that game. I heard that there were some pretty good plays too.

After a half hour into the game, I find that my comfort has deserted me. I squirm in my seat, trying to regain it. To no avail. So I go back to the kitchen to refresh my beer. However, I see that I just have two bottles in the fridge, and it's only Tuesday. She won't go shopping again until Saturday.

She allows me only a six-pack of bottles a week. I understand why, of course. And sure, I'm a grown man who can drive to the store and buy some more, but I did vow to "honor." And I will honor her wishes.

Besides, I don't want to put my clothes back on.

A shower, I think, a shower would do me good. I'm usually a morning shower person, but right now the thought of hot water pounding my back sounds nice. Maybe I'll find my comfort in there.

I leave my boxers in the kitchen, knowing I'll pick them up before she gets home. It's only funny once to explain why your shorts are on the kitchen floor, and it had nothing to do with amorous activities.

I go directly to the master bathroom, reach into the glass-walled shower, and turn the faucet on. I wander around, waiting for the water to warm up. I look into the mirror. It's one of those moments when I think I look different. I don't know why I think that. I don't want to give any time to figuring out why.

I step into the hot shower, and let the water wash away my thoughts. I don't need thoughts in the shower. I don't need thoughts much of anywhere anymore. It makes life so much simpler.

After several minutes, I grab the soap and wash my body. I grab the shampoo and wash my hair. For some reason, I stop for a second. I notice the steam curling up to the ceiling. It seems to want to remind me of something. I will give no more time to this. I rinse off quickly and get out.

I'm lying in my bed, in the dark, the only illumination the digital clock on the nightstand. It reads 1:47. I need to sleep. I have an early class in the morning.

No, I need to talk. For some reason, the bustle of my wife's life, and the sedateness of my own never seem to intersect. That's not right, they do. We have dinners at home, sometimes dinners out, and a movie. We've taken a vacation or two.

But I feel so apart from her. She doesn't really talk to me about much. She can't talk to me about work, and she won't talk to me about family, and I understand both completely. Some things you just can't talk about.

I try to talk to her about my job, but telling a highly bred intelligence officer about publicly schooled teenagers isn't too different from trying to explain colors to the blind. Sure, they may get the concept, but all in all, they'll never understand.

And I tell her everything I can about my family, but it remains a one-sided conversation.

Sure, there are other things we could talk about; current events, art, movies, television, um, what else? She doesn't like talking about sports, and there's things I don't like talking about. There are some things that I just can't talk about.

But there's plenty I can. If I could, if I tried.

Maybe I made a mistake of waiting for her to start a conversation. No, I don't always do that. Sometimes I make a remark, hoping to get a response from her. I mean, I do, but it's rarely verbal, and when it is, it's never anything to build upon.

I wonder if it's a product of her youth – feeling lonely, and getting in the habit of not talking. But I would think that when presented with my ever-listening self, she would want to talk.

Maybe my expectations are too high. Maybe we haven't yet settled into enough comfort with each other to spontaneously generate conversation. But I feel it should be different, I _know_ it should be different. But I just can't talk to her about it to change it.

I suppose I could talk to someone else to relieve this need; a friend, a counselor, somebody. But it's not the same. One has a special relationship with one's spouse that's supposed to be cherished. And I do cherish my relationship. Which is why I want to stay within the boundaries of it to meet my needs. I'm pretty sure _she_ doesn't have to look elsewhere for her needs.

Besides, whether I talk to friends, counselors, strangers, my mother, somebody, _anybody_, there are things, _things_, that I just can't talk about.

A moment of gratitude for my matrimonial silence sweeps me off to sleep.

There's a damn rally at the school today. I have to stand there and make sure nobody's hiding behind the bleachers.

And sure enough, there's a couple of hormonal students, standing very close to each other, leaning up against one of the supports.

They're not making out or anything, they're just whispering, and laughing every so often. It reminds me of a clandestine meeting.

"All right, you two. Get back out there."

The brown haired boy shoots me a challenging glare with his dark eyes. These kids think that new teachers are easy. However, I've stared down terrorists. One skinny 16-year-old isn't going to scare me. After realizing that I don't at all take him seriously, he tugs the arm of his auburn-haired girlfriend.

"C'mon." She gives me her own threatening gaze as they leave, and I have to refrain from laughing at the bluster of the young. Rushing to break rules for stolen moments. I wonder if I was ever so foolish.

I return to my watch post, and continue looking for troublemakers throughout the rally. None surface, and when the children are dismissed, I make my way through a sea of them to go back to my classroom.

My eyes automatically scan the crowd, looking for threats. Some habits never break.

But instead of surreptitious criminals, I see kids walking together, in groups, in couples. Chattering excitedly. I spot the couple I chased out from under the bleachers, the boy's arm wrapped protectively around the girl. What a futile gesture.

I look around again, and for a moment feel like I'm looking at them with fresh eyes. I stare in wonder at the few students who stop to say "hi" to me. I gaze, marveling, at the tightly knit groups. I glance, once again, at the defiant couple.

And I feel alone. In a crowd full of people, I feel alone.


End file.
